"What happened to your leg?"

"A fight with some white guys, one of them had a knife and got me in the back."

"A fight?" He didn't seem surprised. "Over what?"

"I was trying to help two girls."

"Girls?"

Joshua nodded.

"Were they black girls?"

"No, they were Jewish."

"I see." Again, pensive. He stood up and stretched. "Well, Mr. Eubanks, you should think more seriously about becoming a lawyer. You'll probably make an excellent one; you seem to have a gifted mind. You may even contribute to your people one day, help them as you did those Jewish girls. Unless, of course, you're afraid of being wounded again."

"I'll think about it," Joshua said. He would have said anything at this point to have gotten out of there.

"Good, you do that," Thompson replied. "You can go now."

Joshua got up, and walked toward the door.

"One more thing, Mr. Eubanks."

"Yes." He turned around.

"Have you ever heard of Crow Hill?" Thompson asked.

"No."

"Have you heard of Crow Heights?"

"No."

"You might want to look them up in the library. You might find something interesting." Thompson turned away, giving the impression that he wasn't looking for a reply. Joshua left the room, forgot about his next cla.s.s, and headed directly for the library.

Joshua didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but was sure it would be some obscure little historical snippet of seeming insignificance.

Crow Hill.

Crow Heights.

What could Thompson have been alluding to?

Figuring it obviously had something to do with Crown Heights, he searched the card catalogue for t.i.tles about Brooklyn. He pulled three books, dealing specifically with the history of Brooklyn, and searched their indices. All had entries for Crown Heights, but the first two had nothing under Crow. He was just about convinced he was chasing a ghost, when he came upon an entry in the third book.

There it was, in front of his eyes: Crow Hill. He turned to the page and began reading about how, during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Crown Heights had actually been called Crow Hill. It was regarded as a hill because it was the highest point of land stretching from the hills east of Prospect Park to East New York. The term crow had two origins. The first was that, according to folklore, the hill had been infested with crows. The second theory was based on the fact that the area had been settled in the 1830's by freed black slaves, who were referred to as "crows" by whites.

In either case, the black settlers lived in shacks they built on the hill. Many of them had been farmers or craftsmen, while others found work in the fish and meat markets in Manhattan. Years later, as the city limits extended, Crow Hill's abundance of land and centralized location attracted many Protestant middle-cla.s.s immigrants from Western Europe, who in turn developed the area by building churches, hospitals, parks, museums, and architecturally rich homes. By the early 1920's, the opening of a subway line to the area led to an apartment house building boom, and brought a new influx of immigrants, most of whom were Jewish, Irish, and Italian. Over time, the blacks were forced out as Crow Hill became a highly desirable place for the city's growing urban cla.s.s to live.

An obscure little snippet indeed.

Joshua sat and reread the chapter. It didn't take much to guess what Thompson was trying to tell him. A story about whites taking over a black neighborhood. Vintage Thompson: the repression of historical truth to maintain the white domination of society.

The only remaining question concerned the change of name, something the book, surprisingly, didn't discuss. It wasn't difficult, however, for Joshua to figure that out; after all, the professor had taught him a few things.

He guessed that the new name, Crown Heights, must have been coined by the whites in their effort to upscale the area and rid it of the negative connotation a.s.sociated with its former residents. As for Crow Heights, a term also absent from any of the books, he guessed that it was either an interim name, between Crow Hill and Crown Heights, or a little quip for those in the know, like Thompson, used as a subtle reminder of a neglected past.

Joshua now understood. He had accused Thompson of oversimplifying, and the professor had responded masterfully, using Joshua's own neighborhood as an example of how truly complex things are. Touche!

Months had pa.s.sed since Joshua had seen Rachel. She called once to tell him she was pregnant. The conversation had been tense. He had felt her fear of Binny walking in and discovering her on the phone with him. He had been growing increasingly uneasy with the whole situation.

He hadn't shared his feelings at the time, for it had been her moment of joy. He had also liked the fact that she still needed to talk with him, to share things with him. Above all, he didn't want to lose her.

But now he was at a turning point. Perhaps it was Professor Thompson's influence, or perhaps he was growing up; whatever, he needed to do something.

The day finally came in the middle of February, during his two-week intercession from college. She had called and asked for another meeting. It was a bone-chilling afternoon, the streets were covered with wet snow and ice from a recent storm. Rachel insisted on the boardwalk, their "safe" hideout.

As usual, his arrival preceded hers. The boardwalk was barren; the gusts off the ocean unbearable. He saw her approaching in a bright red wool coat and matching hat. Not very inconspicuous, he thought.

"It's quite cold here," were her first words. Her hands remained in her pocket, shivering along with the rest of her.

"Want to go inside?"

"Where?"

"There's a little luncheonette a few blocks from here. Nice, quiet, and warm."

She considered for a moment. "Okay, let's go."

They left the boardwalk, and walked the two blocks in silence. The freezing air was nothing compared to the chill Joshua felt from her. The luncheonette was on a corner, just below the El, its fogged windows suggesting a toasty interior.

They walked over to an empty table. Rachel removed her coat and hat, as Joshua noticed how four months of pregnancy didn't do much to alter her appearance. In fact, he thought, she looked even better, as if that were possible. She smiled a bit awkwardly, knowing she was being scrutinized.

"I've put on a few pounds," she said.

"You look great."

"Thanks, you're being kind."

The waitress presented herself. Joshua ordered a hot chocolate. Since the place wasn't kosher, Rachel asked only for some cold water.

"I'm sorry, I forgot," Joshua said.

"It's fine," Rachel replied. "Cold water is good for you, especially when you're pregnant."

He looked at her and smiled.

"Enough about me. How have you been?" she asked.

"Pretty good."

"I guess you're learning a lot in college." A touch of envy and sadness.

"Yes, I am." He didn't want to rub it in her face.

"I'm really happy for you." She reached over and touched his hand.

"I'm happy for you, too."

The waitress brought their drinks. The hot chocolate felt good in his hands, even better going down. He felt guilty for her water; he still wanted to take care of her.

"It's really good to see you," she said.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Taken aback, she withdrew her hand.

"Why is it good to see me?"

"Because I've missed you, that's why."

"Okay, if you say so," Testy.

"What does that mean?"

"It means, if you say you've missed me, you've missed me."

"You don't look happy about it."

"Maybe I'm not."

She was silent for a moment. "I suppose I knew this was going to happen."

"Look, Rachel, I just..."

"I know," she interrupted.

"Know what?"

"It's wrong of me to keep calling you, to keep suggesting meetings like this. It isn't fair to you."

"And what about you? Do you enjoy meeting this way?"

"No, I don't. But what else can I do? I can't simply forget you, I just can't!" She began to cry.

He handed her a napkin. "Rachel, there's something I need to know." Now he was touching her hand.

She looked him in the eye, waiting for him to continue.

"I need to know if it's because I'm black?"

"If what's because you're black?" Defensive.

"If you didn't choose me because I'm black."

"Choose you? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Didn't you ever think about it-being with me?"

"You mean, marrying you?"

"Whatever."

Another silence, this time long and onerous.

"Oh Joshua, I'm not going to pretend I haven't thought about it, or how stupid I've been, expecting us to go on forever like this without talking about it. We never have talked about it, have we?"

"No, we haven't."

"And we should have."

"Better late than never."

"Yes, I suppose."

He nodded.

"I do love you," she said. "It's a strange thing, but I know in my heart that I love you." She squeezed his hand. "But I haven't been fair to you and," she hesitated, "I haven't been fair to myself." She stopped and considered what she was about to say. "I suppose your being black has something to do with it. I would be lying if I said it didn't. I don't want to lie to you. But I also know that my being a coward has a lot to do with it as well. I gave you up just like I gave up my dreams of college and medical school. I was afraid of what it would do to my parents; I just couldn't hurt them."

He hesitated a moment, trying to frame his words as tenderly as possible. "I don't think you can completely blame your rejection of me on your parents."

She thought for a moment. "You're right, I can't. There are so many complications, I just don't know where to start. I love being a Hasidic Jew, not because of my parents, but because I really love it. Of course, there are things I would change if I could, and there was a time I believed I could have my dreams and they wouldn't affect anything. But I was naive, everything affects everything.

"That's where you come in. I couldn't marry a Gentile, not because I'm prejudiced-though I'm sure some people would say I am-but because I wouldn't be able to have a Hasidic life or raise Hasidic children if I did. And even if you had offered to convert, it still would have been impossible. Not because of my parents as much as the community. My parents would eventually have accepted you-after my father had another heart attack or two-but I believe they would have. After all my father's been through, there's nothing more abhorrent to my parents than hatred and bigotry. But the community, that's another thing. They would scoff at us, and their children would scoff at our children. It's wrong, I know, especially considering that the Torah commands us to welcome the convert, and the fact that Moses' wife was both black and a convert. But that's how the community is, and the most unfortunate thing about being Hasidic-the thing I hate about it-is that the perceptions of the community are sometimes more important than the Torah itself. So what it all comes down to, I guess, is that my so-called rejection of you has a lot more to do with my weakness, than your color."

"I don't think 'weakness' is the right word," Joshua responded.

"Then what is?"

"Fear."

She offered a faint smile. "But I sure do feel weak," she said, her face turning sullen again.

"It's okay." he said.

"Is it?"